


Gravity, or The Law By Which We Fall

by rowenablade, sammininoofthelord



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Art, Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), First Meetings, Fluff, Inspired by Art, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Outer Space, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fall Crowley (Good Omens), Reminiscing, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29070435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammininoofthelord/pseuds/sammininoofthelord
Summary: Before Crowley was a demon, he was an angel who made stars.Before Aziraphale was a principality, he was a soldier in a universe that had never known war.They're on opposite sides when they meet, but neither knows how to treat the other as an enemy.They're on their own side, when they remember.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 47
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	Gravity, or The Law By Which We Fall

**Author's Note:**

> The concept and lovely art for this fic was created by [sammininoofthelord](https://sammininoofthelord.tumblr.com/) for the Good Omens Reverse Bang 2021. This is my first ever collaboration and I am so happy to finally share it!

Far up north, so far that the lights of the northernmost village in Europe were nothing but a faint hint of gold on the horizon, so far removed from anything that in any direction the tundra met the sky in a crisp delineation of black and white, two winged figures drifted slowly down in a tightening circle before lighting upon the earth.

The one with white wings landed first, not terribly gracefully. His boots thudded into the snow and he wobbled a bit, as one does on the deck of a ship on rough seas. He dropped the basket he was carrying and spread his arms to steady himself, so bundled up in layers of wool and cotton that it was barely perceptible when he lowered them back down. He was smiling giddily, his breath steaming in the frigid air.

“Oh, that was such fun,” he said. “It really has been too long.”

The one with black wings landed next to him, very gracefully, coming down into a crouch like a hero on a film poster. He was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket with a scarlet silk lining, something more suited to an air-conditioned mall than the arctic circle, and immediately began trying to cover up the fact that he was shivering.

“Second best way to travel,” he said through chattering teeth, smiling at his companion. “And look, it hasn’t even started yet. We’ve got plenty of time to-“

“To turn to icicles, by the look of you,” the angel interrupted.

“Impeccably stylish icicles,” the demon pointed out.

“Crowley, you’re not even wearing gloves!” The angel shuffled over and grasped the demon’s hands. “Really, darling, whatever were you thinking?”

A sly smile crept over Crowley’s face. “Was thinking I’d have you to keep me warm,” he purred, sliding his hands inside the angel’s coat. 

Aziraphale blushed at that and wriggled closer. “Can’t say you were wrong. I did bring some things I thought we’d need,” he said, with a wink and a nod at the basket.

“That ssso?” Crowley bent his head to nuzzle at the side of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Quite.” Aziraphale pulled away, to Crowley’s chagrin. In short order he produced from the basket several fuzzy blankets, two thermoses, an actual kerosene lantern that probably hadn’t seen a drop of its intended fuel since the nineteenth century but burned with a warm yellow glow anyway, a tin of chocolate biscuits and a leather-bound book with an embossed title that appeared to be in Norwegian.

“Ah yes, nothing like pitch dark and sub-zero temperatures to put you in the mood for a little light reading,” Crowley remarked at this last item.

“It’s for atmosphere,” Aziraphale informed him. “There’s a few legends about the aurora borealis in here. I thought we could read them while we waited. A sort of overture before the performance.”

“Thought you helping me get warm was gonna be the overture,” the demon said with a slight pout.

Aziraphale smiled, not entirely innocently. “You know perfectly well I’m capable of doing both at the same time. Now be a dear and help me spread these blankets out, would you?”

After a few more minutes of chattering and rearranging, they wound up sprawled across and/or wrapped in various blankets, Aziraphale’s wings arching up over them as Crowley rested his head in his lap. They drank hot cocoa laced with brandy from their thermoses, and soon Crowley stopped shivering and just gazed peacefully up at the distant stars. Aziraphale read quietly to himself, pausing occasionally to translate an interesting bit to Crowley, whose Norwegian had gotten rusty since he’d stopped being able to write off tickets to Eurovision as a business expense.

“Apparently, some locals believe that if you show the aurora borealis a white cloth or sheet of paper, they’ll come and take you away,” Aziraphale remarked. “That’s a little frightening, isn’t it?”

“Think it depends on where they’re taking you.” Crowley offered the angel a biscuit from the tin, then took one for himself. “It’s not so bad up there. As long as you don’t need to breathe.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Aziraphale agreed. “I wish I could have seen it all when it was new.”

“Yeah.” Crowley twisted his neck to look up at him, eyes soft in the lantern light. “Probably best for us both that you weren’t there, though. Considering how it all went down.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. “I suppose you’re right.”

They were silent for a while after that, remembering.

************

The First War didn’t just happen on Earth. It happened _everywhere_.

It happened at the bottom of the oceans, where vents of molten heat turned angels to glass and the pressure of Heavenly convictions ground demons into dust. It happened in the realms of thought and logic, where imaginary numbers and philosophical paradoxes clashed and tangled until they were nothing but formless, random noise. And it happened up in the stars, where an angel with orange hair like the tail of a comet gathered shards of starlight up in his arms and flung them out at the entropic forces closing in on him.

“That all you got?” he hollered as each sharp point of light was swallowed by the void-shaped beings. “Come on, we’re just getting started!”

That was a lie. The voids had swallowed everything he had thrown at them, the novas and the gamma-ray bursts and the electromagnetic storms. These little stars were all he had left, yet still he threw them, because he truly did not know what was going to happen to him when he was finally overpowered. 

Until very recently, no angel had been bothered by not knowing something. But those days were over.

The stars shredded the darkness where they touched, but the darkness was so vast, so deep and heavy, and soon the angel had nothing in his arms and was surrounded. He curled his wings around himself as the forces of holy gravity began to tug at him.

“Wait,” he said as one of the voids advanced ahead of the others. It was the size of a dying star, and yet also just the size of one of his eyes, both at once, and looking at it made his head hurt. As it got closer he felt reality growing soft around the edges. “Wait, we don’t…it’s all in good fun, isn’t it? We’re not really fighting! Please, let me just _talk_ to someone!”

The void drifted closer. The angel was falling into it, and it was passing through him, and he felt it catch on something as they met over that impossible threshold.

His name. The void came out the other side of his head, and his name was gone. It had never existed.

The other voids moved in, ready to claim their own pieces of him.

Nameless, terrified, the angel picked a direction and dove.

Stars flew past him, so fast they became unbroken lines of white against a black tunnel. He was falling toward something bright with no idea if it was a refuge or a threat. Anything was better than losing another part of himself to the void, his former brothers and sisters who were now clad in annihilation.

He fell through the solar system, grazed the sun and felt searing pain tear along his midsection. He was aware of heat now, heat and intense pressure, as the Earth’s atmosphere caught him and then drew him down, down. He fell through shimmering towers of clouds, his mouth and eyes filling with vapor, fell blind and drowning and burning until he crashed upon the earth. 

His body did not shatter, because it had not occurred to him yet that it was supposed to. He was not accustomed to being on the surface of something. He was used to gravity as a force that drew things together in a delicate balance, not as something that crushed smaller things against larger ones.

Everything hurt. His wings, his eyes, the space in his mind where his name used to be. The burn across his stomach was a pulsing, furious red, the heat of it a dizzying contrast to the rest of his cold skin. Wisps of cloud still clung to his limbs and feathers, draping him in shimmering white.

He tried to get up and found that he could not. It was not the pain from his injuries. It was gravity. The Earth had him now, and did not intend to let him go.

With great effort, he managed to roll himself onto his belly. He lay beneath the shelter of his wings, cheek pressed to the cool soil. He smelled something burning, and was relieved to note that the source was not himself. He could not manage to think on it any further.

************

Not far from where the former star-maker lay, a platoon of angels emerged from a burning forest. They were bloodied, shaken and significantly fewer in number than they had been when they went in.

Their commander held aloft his flaming sword and called his soldiers to him. They gathered in a tight huddle, faces pale and frightened. Their wings were all grimed the same mottled grey from smoke and ash, as was the commander’s white-blond hair. His first attempt to address them was interrupted by a fit of coughing, and he ended up leaning on the sword to support himself.

“Zephkiel. Baruchiel. Monitor the edge of the forest and make sure no more of those… _things_ have followed us. Those of you who are uninjured, tend to the ones who are.”

The angels fell to their tasks, and their commander walked among them to assess the damage. Several of his soldiers had deep cuts and fractured wings. The commander dispensed healing magic and words of encouragement in equal measure, although he had to be conservative with both. Both magic and morale were thin on the ground.

“Commander,” one of the angels said. She had twigs snarled in her long golden hair and a smear of ash on her cheek. “Aziraphale. What about the others? We have to go back for them.”

Aziraphale looked back at the trees, now nearly obscured by billows of black smoke. He thought of his soldiers who had not made it out, trapped and torn apart by the monsters the trees had turned into. 

“The others are gone,” he said, loud enough for the rest of the platoon to hear. “The rebels destroyed them.”

Murmurs of distress rippled through the crowd; one or two of them cried out in disbelief. The angel who had spoken looked up at Aziraphale with huge, golden-brown eyes.

“They can’t be gone,” she said. “They…they were just here a minute ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said helplessly. All around him, his soldiers began to weep.

Aziraphale felt like weeping himself. They had been sent down to Earth to eliminate the rebels. They had not been told that they would be risking their own destruction. The Archangels had assured them before they were deployed that they were strong, that if their motives were pure and their devotion unwavering they would come to no harm. They were told that the rebels were weak and cowardly, that they stood no chance against the might of Heaven.

It had seemed a game at first, when the trees began to move. They had all played games of chase and evasion in Heaven, when the Host was united, and for a few minutes Aziraphale had watched the dance of green leaves and white feathers swirling in the golden sunlight and thought that perhaps this was all that war was. Just another way for angels to pass the time.

Then the movements had turned violent, and the wails of pain had started. Aziraphale had looked at the sword in his hand and tried to remember what he’d been told, that he could use this object as a means of protection. _Help us_ , he’d thought. _Help me protect them._ The sword had burst into flame and Aziraphale had been able to free some of those who were trapped. Not all of them. The tool was imperfect; it hadn’t protected everyone.

He watched the flames lick along the edge of the blade and understood now that the sword could protect, but that wasn’t its true purpose. Its main function was to hurt and destroy. He wanted to throw it away, to fling it across the horizon as far as it would go, to fly back to Heaven and demand an explanation for why he had been deceived. 

He wouldn’t, of course. He was no rebel. Besides, his platoon needed him.

The angels were gathered together in large clusters, whispering and crying the names of those they had lost. Aziraphale could not bear to scold them for falling out of formation. Instead he turned back to the golden-haired angel, who’s eyes remained stricken, but dry.

“I’m going to fly up and scout ahead,” he told her, trying to project an aura of surety he did not feel. “See if you can help them regain formation. We still have much ground to cover.”

She nodded and proudly lifted her chin. “We’re going to beat them, Commander. If they can destroy us, that means we can destroy them.”

“It does.” Aziraphale looked from her, to his sword, to the burning line of the trees. He felt ill. “If I am not back by the time the sun is there-“ he pointed to a spot above the horizon, “-you will lead the platoon, Andoniel. Sandalphon’s forces will be waiting for us at the sea.”

“Yes, Commander,” she said, and clasped his hands between hers. Their foreheads touched, a brief exchange of love and support, a reminder of what they all were fighting to defend.

Aziraphale spread his wings, streaked with soot but still magnificent, and took off into the blinding white sky.

Beyond the forest the land was all gently rolling hills covered in soft grass and occasional patches of flowers. To the west, Aziraphale knew, the ground would turn rocky and eventually lead to the sea. It was all pristinely beautiful, but after what had happened in the forest he could not help but survey every element of it as a potential threat. The rebels had been angels once, but they had shunned their given forms as they had shunned God’s rule, and now they could be anything. 

As he flew he scanned the ground below, looking for points from which an ambush might come, unusual activity amongst the fauna, smoke or blood or any other evidence of battle. He was about to wheel back around and return to his platoon, satisfied the next day’s trek on foot would be safe enough, when he spotted something far below. Brilliant red and black stood out among the greens and browns of the earth below, and when Aziraphale peered closer he saw the unmistakable winged form of one of his brethren.

He came to a hasty landing and rushed over to the crumpled figure. The wounded angel was lying prone, his wings spread out and twitching weakly as if he were trying to raise them, to fly away or to shield himself. His feathers were a lustrous black, with the deepest blue tint to them when the sunlight hit them the right way, and dusted with silver. Aziraphale had never met a star-maker in the flesh, but he recognized the coloring. He despaired a little at the knowledge that the rebels had made it all the way up into the reaches of deep space and had begun hurting angels up there too.

“Brother,” he said, kneeling at the star-maker’s side. “Can you hear me? How badly are you hurt?”

Tawny-colored eyes rolled up to meet his own. 

“I’m not sure,” the star-maker croaked, lifting his head a scant few inches off the ground. “Something’s wrong. I feel so…heavy.”

His head dropped back down, face half-hidden in the grass. Aziraphale scooted closer on his knees and hesitantly touched the star-maker’s shoulder.

“Is it your spine? Try to move your arms and legs.”

The star-maker grumbled but complied, limbs shifting weakly until he partially rolled onto his side. His clothing was in tatters, and as soon as he changed position Aziraphale could see the lurid red burn across his stomach.

“Oh dear, that can’t be comfortable.” He was suddenly self-consciously aware of the sword at his hip, still glowing faintly with heat. He unbuckled the scabbard and laid it aside to allow himself to sit on the ground and let the star-maker’s head fall onto his lap. Hair like a great network of scarlet rivers flowed over Aziraphale’s legs and down the wounded angel’s back.

“You’re safe now,” Aziraphale assured him, laying a comforting hand on his bony shoulder. “What’s your name?”

The star-maker closed his eyes, as if flinching from a powerful light.

“I don’t remember.”

That was certainly cause for alarm. Aziraphale had never heard of an angel forgetting _anything._ What tortures had the rebels subjected this poor creature to?

“Can you tell me what happened? Do you remember any of it?”

There was an eerie silence, the star-maker perfectly still in his arms. It took Aziraphale a moment to realize that he wasn’t breathing. His corporation, while shaped the same as Aziraphale’s, had no need for lungs. The silence was the star-maker gathering his thoughts, and the absence of any sighs or throat-clearing was the source of that uncanny sensation.

“It didn’t make sense at first,” he began. “It’s different up there, you know? I work with energy, mostly. Gamma rays, microwave radiation. Maybe the occasional precious metal or mineral. But nothing’s destroyed up there, not really. Just repurposed. So when they came and started making things…go away…I didn’t understand.”

Aziraphale felt cold. Had Lucifer’s rebels somehow harnessed the power of Creation, and learned how to… _Uncreate?_ The blasphemy of it frightened him even more than the practical implications.

“They were just _nothing_ ,” the star-maker continued. “Or, I don’t know, they were so _much_ something that they came back around to being nothing again. I’m not explaining this right, you have to understand, I couldn’t even really look at them. But one of them touched me and…and my name was gone. So I fled before they could take the rest of me.”

His voice was strained by fear and guilt. Aziraphale looked deeply into his golden eyes and stroked his fiery hair, following the burning strands down to where they mingled with his feathers. He was too depleted to heal the star-maker’s wounds yet, but he could comfort with Heaven’s touch.

“You were right to flee them,” he said. “If they’d destroyed you, perhaps no one would know that they had discovered this power. You might have helped us turn the tide of the war.”

“They should have warned us,” the star-maker said bitterly. “They made it seem like it was just going to be fun. I didn’t know it would hurt.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispered, eyes flicking skyward. “I wish I had known, too, but it doesn’t matter now. We have to be strong.”

Black wings stirred, rose off the ground as if testing the air before collapsing again.

“Not sure I know how to fly down here,” the star-maker said. “There’s so much…interference. And what’s this feeling like something’s pushing on me?”

He raised his wings again. Aziraphale followed his gaze to the tiny movements of the feathers as the air ruffled them.

Aziraphale laughed as gently as he could. He didn’t want the star-maker to think he was being mocked.

“That’s called wind. It helps with flying down here. Well, usually. Unless it’s very strong.”

“I know solar wind. But that feels warm. This isn’t like that.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “No, it’s not.”

He watched the star-maker’s eyes drift upward, seeming to track the movements of the clouds. As Aziraphale watched, those eyes began to shimmer with unshed tears.

“I can never go back, can I?”

Mindful of his injuries, Aziraphale tried to hold him a little tighter. “All isn’t lost, friend. We can win the war yet, and take the stars back from the rebels. Someday we’ll all be back where we belong.”

“Back from the rebels?” The star-maker blinked. “Aren’t we…?”

Aziraphale froze. He felt as if a great weight had suddenly landed on his back, right between his wings.

It had to be another misunderstanding. Perhaps the word meant something different up in space.

“Lucifer’s outcasts. The ones we’re fighting,” he explained. “The ones who defied God. They’re the ones who hurt you. Aren’t they?”

Fear broke across the star-maker’s features.

“Lucifer is trying to make things _better_ ,” he said. “It’s the Creator who isn’t being fair…”

He stiffened and rolled away from Aziraphale, coming to rest in a half-sit with his wings arching up above him. His eyes were frantic now.

“You’re one of Her soldiers.” His voice shook. “You’re like them, you’re like the ones who hurt me-“

“Your fellow rebels just killed my friends!”

“My name, they took my name from me-“

“That wouldn’t have happened if you had just done what your were told!”

They were both standing now, hands curled into fists, circling each other warily. The star-maker still looked very much the worse for wear. Though taller than Aziraphale, he seemed barely accustomed to standing on his feet, and swayed and stumbled as the breeze brushed against his wings. Aziraphale, feet planted and sword once more in his hand, knew that it would be a short fight, should it come to that.

The sword felt heavy at the end of his arm. His duty right now was to use it, and swiftly. That much had been made clear to him, when so many other things remained a mystery. The rebels were dangerous and needed to be eliminated.

The star-maker did not look dangerous. He looked lost, and scared, and still divinely beautiful. 

“Why?” Aziraphale asked. He could feel the metal hilt growing hot in his grip. “Why did you join them?”

“I just had some questions,” the star-maker said. “I didn’t want a war. I didn’t want anyone to be hurt at all. I thought…I thought She loved us all equally.”

Aziraphale did not know what to say to that. He’d been told the rebels were all well aware of the consequences of their decisions, that the war had been entirely by their orchestration. There had been no room for any angels to be confused about what side they were on.

The sword was an instrument of violence, but also of protection. Would killing this poor creature protect anybody? He certainly was no threat to Aziraphale, not in this state. 

He looked back in the direction from which he had flown. The others would be expecting him back.

“You have to hide,” he said. “I’ll be coming back this way with the rest of my platoon. If we see you, we’ll have no choice but to destroy you.”

“But _why?_ ”

“Because…” Aziraphale said helplessly. “Because that’s the way it is. I’m sorry.”

Something settled on the star-maker’s face at that, a hardness that had not been there before. For the first time, Aziraphale was able to conceive of him as an enemy combatant, and not something to be pitied and comforted. _I see how it is,_ that look seemed to say. _You’re no different from the ones who hurt me after all._

“Go,” Aziraphale said, arching up his wings and tightening his grip on the sword. “Please.”

The star-maker opened his mouth as if to protest, then thought better of it. Instead he closed his eyes and began to change. His wings folded away, his limbs retracted. The black of his feathers flowed out to cover the rest of his skin, turning smaller, sleeker, until the whole surface of his body looked shiny and pebbled. They covered the burn on his stomach as well, turning red where they touched the blistered skin. Now only a long tube of muscle, he collapsed to the earth and raised his new blunt snout toward Aziraphale. The eyes were the same, bright gold, although the pupils were vertical slits now. It made him look clever and a little cruel.

“Oh.” Curiosity overcoming his need to posture before the enemy, Aziraphale stooped to look closer. “Is that…a form you take often, up in space?”

Aziraphale reared back at the hissing sound the creature made in response, but realized a few seconds later he was only trying to laugh. 

“No,” the star-maker replied without moving his new mouth. “I, er, tried to become a comet, but…that didn’t really work, did it? I don’t think the atmosphere down here will let me be one of those, so then I just sort of went for the general shape, and, well…” He twisted himself around to take in his sleek form. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t feel so heavy now, though.”

Despite himself, Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, it looks like a good choice. Best to stay low to the ground, at least for a while.”

“So your lot don’t destroy me,” the would-be comet said pointedly.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, heart heavy. “That.”

“Right. Well.” The creature wriggled his body experimentally. Aziraphale was struck by how fluid the motion was, how quick this new creature may be. The star-maker’s new form might not be as harmless as it first appeared. “See you on the other side of this, I guess.”

Not sure what else to do, Aziraphale nodded.

The creature slithered off into the tall grass, and Aziraphale quickly lost track of him. He was, he realized, grateful. Enemy or no, dangerous or no, he had no desire to use his sword anymore that day. Possibly ever.

He would not get that wish, but the next time he saw what the star-maker had become, the fighting had ended, and the six-thousand year standoff had begun.

“Could use some musical accompaniment, couldn’t it?” Crowley asked, as they gazed up at the shifting colors in the sky. “Some strings, maybe? Perhaps a discreet choir?”

That was something he had forgotten about working up there; how the marvels of space took place in total silence. Back then, he had found the silence peaceful, but he wasn’t that kind of creature anymore.

“I think it’s perfect the way it is,” Aziraphale assured him. He had them both wrapped up in his wings, their heads huddled together, sending crystal puffs of breath that smelled of chocolate wafting up to meet the riot of color above them. “I can’t think of a single thing that would improve this moment.”

“That’s why you’ve got me.” Crowley shifted in Aziraphale’s arms, then stood. Aziraphale, disappointed at the loss of contact but also curious, blinked up at the demon as his wings unfurled.

“Come on. Let’s get a closer look.”

Crowley wheeled up into the sky. Aziraphale shook out his wings, carefully screwed the top back on their thermos so the contents would not get cold, and flew up after him.

The aurora borealis was high up in the atmosphere, so high that Aziraphale could not see the earth below them when they drifted to a stop. Laughing, Crowley lounged back against a plush cloud of fluorescent green light and beckoned Aziraphale toward him.

“Try it, angel. It’s like a waterbed.”

Aziraphale cautiously leaned against the surface of the light, and found that Crowley was correct. The light was soft and springy, with just enough give that he could bounce off of it if he tried. It was also warm, and that combined with the texture gave the unsettling impression that they were fleas on the hide of some massive, phosphorescent animal. 

“Are they…alive?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not like things on earth are. That’s not really the question, up here. Things just are, or they aren’t.” He sat up and spread his arms to take in the shifting colors around them. “These are. And those.” An expansive wave at the stars. “And you and me.” 

Then the demon pointed. “And that…isn’t.”

Aziraphale tried to follow the line of Crowley’s finger, but it was difficult up here, where one patch of eternity looked much like another. If he squinted, though, he thought he could see something, a space in the sky that was darker than the rest- or was it so bright that he couldn’t look directly at it?

“The humans call it a black hole. Ever notice how on-the-nose astronomers are about naming things? What’s that spot on the sun? Oh, that’s called a sunspot. And that big burst of gamma rays? ’S a gamma ray burst, isn’t it? They could have shown the botanists a thing or two.”

Had Crowley simply been babbling for its own sake, Aziraphale would have been happy to relax and listen, but he could tell when his old friend was uncomfortable about something. He reached out to take Crowley’s hand and gazed out at the black hole with him.

“Would you like to go back down?” he asked.

“Nah.” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Wanted you to see it. I never felt like I did a very good job explaining it, you know. Back then.”

They drifted, holding hands, watching light bend around the massive object in the distance.

“Some humans think they lead to other dimensions,” Crowley remarked, soft enough that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d intended to speak out loud. “Haven’t even finished exploring the dimensions they’ve got, and they’re already dreaming about paths to other ones.”

It was with undeniable fondness that he spoke this last. Aziraphale smiled.

“I’m glad they’re still around,” he said. “I’m glad all of this is still around. And us.”

“Me too.”

“Do you think…” Aziraphale began, then stopped. 

Crowley looked at him. “Do I think…?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was a stupid question.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley took the angel’s hands. “Ask me any question you want. Always.”

“I was just wondering if your old name is still out there somewhere. In one of the…other dimensions, or what have you.” Aziraphale tried to look at the ground, but of course there was no ground to look at. “I’m sorry, that’s terribly insensitive. Forget I said it.”

He looked up from beneath his brows, worried he’d see hurt on Crowley’s face. Instead the demon was smiling, softly, indulgently, like he was privy to a delightful secret that only the precise combination of words and gestures would unlock.

It was a look Aziraphale recognized, from someone else. It was a look he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“I don’t care what my old name was,” Crowley said. “I like the one I have.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale demurred. “I suspect you would just change it again, if you didn’t.”

“It is nice to have choices.” Crowley let a drift of solar wind carry him up into a little swoop. “Race you back down?”

“What-“ Aziraphale began, but Crowley was already diving, a black and red blur plunging toward Earth, looking for all the world like a winged comet.

How much courage did it take, to willingly dive the same distance you had already fallen? How strong did you need to be, to have your name taken away and instead of despairing, to decide your name didn’t have to define you?

Aziraphale wasn’t sure these questions had answers, but he was grateful to be able to ask them.

The angel spread his wings, leaped from a shimmering tower of light, and fell after the demon toward home.


End file.
